


Fall Guy

by Dusty_Forgotten (DustyForgotten)



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12715254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyForgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: Nothing stands between Phelps and closing a case.





	Fall Guy

“He gets on my nerves, sure, but I’d be lying if I told you my job wasn’t a hell of a lot harder without him.”

You twirl a ballpoint around your fingers, and complain, “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Can it,” Rusty retorts with an eye roll, “here comes our Golden Boy.”

Cole still walks like a soldier, with that jerk Roy as his newest heeler. It’s strange, not having seen him outside the papers since Traffic, and you almost had yourself convinced he would have gone native with all dirty bastards from Vice— but there’s a grin on his lips and a handshake your way. You take it, obviously, and get greedy with a reach around the shoulders, a literal pat on Phelps’ back.

“Bekowsky, been a while,” the greeting’s short, but there’s a pat in turn, “you finally made Homicide.”

“Coming from anyone else, I’d call that an insult.”

You stare for a second, half-smiles and locked grips, because he’s bumped elbows with everybody in this hallway, but you’d put money down that Traffic was the only time he’s misquoted Hamlet to a shrunken head. Rusty grumbles something you don’t care to catch, and Phelps holds a smirk as he turns, because he recognizes that voice— sort of drags you with, since he forgot to let go of your hand, and you don’t entirely want to.

Doesn’t even have time for hello before Earle gets in the way. It was almost a nice little reunion; like they could get drinks afterward and chat about the good old days— then Roy Earle’s threatening a witness, and Cole spends as much time cleaning up that mess as actually gathering evidence.

He’s reading a prescription label when you brush past Rusty in the hallway, blustered from a failed attempt to talk him down. Really, he should have known better. Not even his life and reputation can keep Phelps from closing a case. He sets it back where he discovered the item, scribbles a note of it in elegant shorthand. You interrupt as he’s pocketing the book, “How’s Vice treating you?”

He stares at the ceiling while the cap of his pen clicks on, and you can see the muscles in his jaw, know how they pull at the corners of his mouth in broad expressions he so rarely shows off. “ … Remember saying Vice was all crooked cops, and they only get paid like that to keep their mouths shut?”

Cole turns to face you. His jaw’s still locked. “I do.”

“You were right.”

When the news breaks, Rusty scoffs and says he should’ve guessed. You just stare out the window, and wonder how much it cost Earle to get Phelps on the hook for this. Cole never let a thing get between him and a case: not risk of reputation, relationships…

Not even his own life.


End file.
